


Ours

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fights, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: “Couldn’t sleep last night,” Grantaire told him, tossing the board game Risk into one of the many boxes strewn throughout the room. “So I decided to finally watch Marie Kondo, if only to get Courfeyrac to shut up about it—”Enjolras snorted. “Good luck with that,” he muttered.“—And what can I say, I got inspired.” He gestured at the boxes. “Those are the keep, those are the donate, those are the toss.”“Uh-huh.” Enjolras said slowly, picking his way through the room. “Isn’t the whole point of her method that you should keep the things that bring you joy?”Grantaire looked contemplatively at the waffle iron he had just picked up. “That is right,” he murmured, before decisively setting it into one of the ‘donate’ boxes. “And it’s exactly what I’m doing.”Enjolras bent and picked a small plastic trophy out of one of the ‘toss’ boxes. “And, uh, should be I offended that my fifth grade soccer trophy doesn’t bring you joy?”“No, but I’ll give you twenty bucks if you can honestly tell me that it bringsyoujoy,” Grantaire said, grinning. Enjolras didn’t smile and Grantaire’s smile faded, just slightly. “Why do I have a feeling that this is about more than a soccer trophy?”





	Ours

**Author's Note:**

> Me in 2013: Writing angst where one of them DIES?! More likely than you think.
> 
> Me in 2019: Writing established relationship schmoop where they grow and learn and support each other? More likely than you think.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Enjolras rolled over in bed, reaching out automatically for Grantaire, only to find the man missing. He huffed a sigh and lifted his head enough to squint at the clock, the neon green numbers ‘6:52’ piercing in the dim early morning light. **  
**

Sure, his alarm was set to go off in eight minutes anyway, but as he slowly sat up, Enjolras couldn’t help but feel more than a little peeved that his planned eight minute cuddle session was apparently over before it even began.

He curbed his irritation and got up in search of his wayward boyfriend, finding him in the guest room that doubled as an office for Enjolras and a studio for Grantaire, sorting through the various items that Enjolras had shoved in the closet there with misguided if well-intended plans to go through them later. “Oh, hey,” Grantaire said, glancing up as Enjolras poked his head in. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Enjolras said, leaning against the door jamb. “What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep last night,” Grantaire told him, tossing the board game Risk into one of the many boxes strewn throughout the room. “So I decided to finally watch Marie Kondo, if only to get Courfeyrac to shut up about it—”

Enjolras snorted. “Good luck with that,” he muttered.

“—And what can I say, I got inspired.” He gestured at the boxes. “Those are the keep, those are the donate, those are the toss.”

“Uh-huh.” Enjolras said slowly, picking his way through the room. “Isn’t the whole point of her method that you should keep the things that bring you joy?”

Grantaire looked contemplatively at the waffle iron he had just picked up. “That is right,” he murmured, before decisively setting it into one of the ‘donate’ boxes. “And it’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Enjolras bent and picked a small plastic trophy out of one of the ‘toss’ boxes. “And, uh, should be I offended that my fifth grade soccer trophy doesn’t bring you joy?”

“No, but I’ll give you twenty bucks if you can honestly tell me that it brings _you_ joy,” Grantaire said, grinning. Enjolras didn’t smile and Grantaire’s smile faded, just slightly. “Why do I have a feeling that this is about more than a soccer trophy?”

Enjolras sighed. “I need coffee,” he muttered, turning and heading to the kitchen. He wasn’t entirely surprised that Grantaire trailed after him, though he ignored him as he went about brewing a fresh pot.

“You’re mad.”

Enjolras sighed again. “I’m not mad,” he said. “And I need coffee before we have this conversation.”

Grantaire pulled one of the chairs out from the kitchen table and spun it so he could sit backward on it, resting his elbows on the top rung of the chair back. “While you get suitably caffeinated, can I just point out that it’s not just your stuff that I’ve been going through?”

“No,” Enjolras said dryly, “as long as I’m allowed to point out that the vast majority of your stuff is still at your apartment, since we don’t actually live together.”

All traces of Grantaire’s smile disappeared. “Seriously?” he said. “You really want to do this right now?”

Enjolras grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. “No, frankly I don’t want to do this at all, but then again, I’m not the one who’s been going through my belongings at ass o’clock in the morning as if he’s, I don’t know, entitled to them.”

“I am entitled to them,” Grantaire said with a scowl, taking one of the mugs when Enjolras held it out to him. “Because while my name may not be on the lease, all of my belongings are here. My apartment is empty, save for some duplicate books and random crap I definitely need to get rid of, and I’ve spent easily the last month sleeping over here. We _are_ living together, whether you like it or not.”

Enjolras scowled as well, taking a much-needed sip of coffee. “We’ll circle back to that,” he said stiffly. “For right now, I’d like to focus on the part where you think that you’re entitled to my belongings.”

Grantaire stared at him. “Enj, you don’t believe in material possessions.”

“Well, I believe they exist—”

“But you don’t believe that the rich should hold onto them,” Grantaire said firmly, clearly refusing to fall for Enjolras’s attempt at a diversion. “And as you’ve frequently identified yourself as a recovering member of the 1%, you are clearly comfortable applying your own logic to yourself and by extension, your possessions.” He cocked his head. “Or are you just really that attached to your fifth grade soccer trophy?”

“You know damn well this is not about the trophy,” Enjolras snapped, the caffeine not having its desired effect.

Grantaire met his glare evenly. “Then maybe you can tell me what this is actually about.”

“It’s about the fact that it’s _mine_!” Enjolras half-shouted.

“The stuff I’ve been going through it both of ours—”

“No, it’s my stuff, and it’s your stuff, and since your stuff is shit, I don’t particularly care what you do with it, but I do care what you do with mine!”

Grantaire recoiled, his expression tightening. “Oh,” he said, setting his untouched cup of coffee on the table. “Ok.”

He stood, pausing onto to grab his hoodie from where it was hanging on the coat rack that they had bought at IKEA, and Enjolras sighed. “Where are you going?” he asked tiredly, all of the fight seeming to leave him in an instant.

“Home,” Grantaire said. “Since you’ve made it very clear that this is not it.”

“Grantaire—”

But it was too late. Grantaire swept out, all but slamming the door after him, and Enjolras sighed once more, draining his coffee and trying to pretend the bitter taste in his mouth was only from the lack of sugar in his coffee.

* * *

 

To be clear, it wasn’t about the stuff.

Enjolras admitted that to Combeferre, who listened somewhat sympathetically as Enjolras spilled the entire story via FaceTime. “So then what was it really about?” Combeferre asked, taking a sip of his own cup of coffee, his phone likely propped against some book or another on his desk.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said shortly, irritated less by the question and more by his own inability to answer.

“Do you not want to live with Grantaire?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, he’s right on that account,” he said. “We are basically living together. That ship has sailed.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “Do you not want to be in a relationship with Grantaire anymore?”

“What?” Enjolras croaked, his eyes widening. “God, no, of course I want to be with Grantaire. I love him.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t know!” Enjolras snapped, before sighing and running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I know it’s stupid, I know it’s just stuff, but when I saw him going through it—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know why it pissed me off so much.”

Combeferre didn’t look surprised by that, and he took another sip of coffee before saying calmly, “Well there’s one thing we haven’t considered.”

Enjolras blinked. “What’s that?”

“Maybe there isn’t a deeper reason for your outburst,” Combeferre said. “Maybe it’s just that you’re tired and crabby and you overreacted.”

Enjolras stared at him. “You really think that’s it?”

Combeferre half-smiled. “I know you like to think that you’re immune to normal human emotions, but you’re not.” He arched an eyebrow at him. “And this isn’t the first time you’ve pulled a stunt like this.”

“I just—” Enjolras struggled to find words, but deep down, he suspected Combeferre was right. He was tired, and he had picked a fight because that’s what he and Grantaire did when they were crabby, but he had gone too far because that’s what he did when he was crabby. “So just like that, huh?”

Combeferre’s smile widened. “Well, the alternative is that you really are that attached to your fifth grade soccer trophy.”

His words were eerily similar to Grantaire’s, and for the first time, Enjolras realized just how stupid he’d been. “Hilarious,” he said dryly, though he was thankfully saved from saying anything more by the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. “I gotta go.”

“Good lu—”

Enjolras hung up before Combeferre could finish the sentence. “Hey,” he said cautiously as Grantaire let himself into their apartment.

And wasn’t that a revelation?

Their apartment. Now that Enjolras was willing to pull his head out of his ass long enough to admit it.

“I went back to my apartment,” Grantaire started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“I’m sorry.”

Grantaire didn’t look surprised. “I know,” he said, hanging his hoodie back up on the coat rack. “Figured you just needed some time to cool off.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “So you’re not mad?”

“Well, I was pissed,” Grantaire admitted, heading to the fridge and grabbing the Brita pitcher to pour himself a glass of water. “But I figured this whole little meltdown was probably about something else, so I decided to come up with a solution.”

“A solution,” Enjolras repeated, a little blankly. “Ok, but—”

Grantaire held up a finger and took a swig of water. “First and foremost, I contacted my landlord and gave him my thirty days notice. I don’t want a separate apartment — I live here.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, surprised by the emotion that welled in his chest, and he reached out automatically to pull Grantaire to him, surprisingly touched when Grantaired ducked his head automatically to rest his head against Enjolras’s chest. “You do. This is home — our home.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, his voice slightly muffled. “And that’s the other thing. Ours. That’s what we need: new stuff that’s not yours or mine, but ours.”

Enjolras laughed lightly, rubbing his hand lightly against Grantaire’s back. “Ok, us and what money? My trust fund’s still in escrow, remember?”

“I didn’t say that we’d be the ones buying it,” Grantaire told him.

“Then how—” Enjolras started, breaking off when Grantaire pulled away just long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out a black velvet ring box.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire said, breaking into a smile, “you think a wedding registry ought to do it?”

Enjolras didn’t even hesitate, pulling Grantaire back to him and kissing him fiercely, cradling Grantaire’s face with both of his hands. “How long have you been planning this?” he asked finally, when he finally had to reemerge for breath.

Grantaire shrugged, looking up at Enjolras with a small, soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “I bought the ring six months ago,” he said. “I was just waiting for the right time.”

“And this was the right time?”

Grantaire shrugged once more. “Yeah,” he said. “Because you finally figured out that I’m not going anywhere.” Enjolras swallowed, hard, and Grantaire drew him in to kiss him once more. “At least, I won’t be, once you answer the question.”

“You have to actually ask it, first,” Enjolras pointed out.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Fine. Enjolras, will you—”

“Yes,” Enjolras said instantly. “Absolutely yes.”

Grantaire’s laugh was cut off by Enjolras kissing him again, both men breathless as Grantaire slid the simple golden band onto Enjolras’s finger. “I want you here,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire glanced up at him. “Forever. This is your home, and I’m so sorry—”

“I know,” Grantaire told him. “I love you.”

Enjolras grinned. “I love you, too.” He glanced down at the band glinting on his finger. “So this new stuff — does that mean we have to actually agree on what we’re registering for, or—”

Grantaire snorted a laugh and shook his head. “We can register for whatever the fuck we want,” he said bluntly. “Under one condition: that whatever it is, it’s ours.”

Enjolras’s grin widened. “Deal,” he said easily. “Ours.”

Grantaire lifted Enjolras’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the ring he had placed on Enjolras’s finger. “Ours,” he repeated. “Forever.”


End file.
